


Trespassers

by YourGayDads



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pre-Canon, how many ways can tham say he's gay, self-indulgent claptrap for an audience of 1, take that as a warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:36:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22577176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourGayDads/pseuds/YourGayDads
Summary: Thomas and James have a long conversation about stuff.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 24
Kudos: 100





	Trespassers

**Author's Note:**

> so the show makes it feel like the initial meetings all happen within a span of a few days, but let’s pretend for the sake of this fic that more of them occurred and more time passed before the tavern scene.

It wasn’t long before James was joining the Hamiltons for supper nearly every night. If Thomas wasn’t already waiting for him in his personal carriage, he would head straight to their house from the Admiralty on foot. Over aperitifs, they would discuss the latest in the _Gazette_ — the capture of French privateers by the Triton, the Catalan revolt against King Philip, or the passing of the Alien Act, and marveled at the constant upheaval at home and abroad.

As it had for the past few weeks, conversation invariably turned to Nassau. Miranda groaned, having had her fill of talk of the place from her husband alone, and withdrew to her rooms to change for the evening. The men retreated to the sanctum of Thomas’s study, where James circled islands of strategic import on a map and steered a fleet of sultanas across the ocean of parchment. After Thomas ate his ships, he peppered him with questions about everything from pirates’ articles of agreement to food stocks until James had to feign death by slumping over in his chair. They attempted to assume some semblance of business but were summoned to the great room to dine.

By the time the pudding was served, the hour was late. The housemaids, without the need for direction, scurried off to prepare a room for James. In a short time, they had reached such a level of relaxed familiarity that was usually achieved only after months — if ever. The three of them retired to the drawing room, drowsy but resistant to sleeping, where Thomas and James played games while Miranda pecked at her harpsichord then read with no obligation to entertain.

When Hennessey brought this assignment to James, he couldn’t have emphasized more Lord Hamilton’s idiosyncrasies and the general insidiousness of the ruling class. James’s interactions with their kind did little to improve his opinion of them so he was already prepared for that trademark combination of pomposity and ignorance, the unearned sense of superiority — never expecting to make friends of them. So maybe it was inevitable that he would endanger this. His way of restoring the accepted order of things. But how could he return to that solitary existence? After them? After him? And what of Thomas, as if James had never called him anything else? He supposed he would simply get another liaison, another hobby, and, over time, they’d drift apart as people did.

Hennessey commanded he and Pickram to go about their duties as if nothing had occurred. He knew James well enough that he would self-correct with twice the rigor he would have applied to any punitive measure. Since Pickram’s uncle surely paid him a visit the following day, an ostensible show of discipline was still required, at least in word. Hennessey’s wry smile after his meeting with the man said all that needed to be said to James, but he couldn’t help adding: “A boor and a bore.”

He dismissed James for the remainder of the week and joked that he’d be happy not to see his face for some time. Leaving the Admiralty, James’s feet fell into the routine of walking west towards the Hamiltons’ house when the realization that Thomas wouldn’t even be there turned him around in the middle of the road. 

“ _Get the fuck out of the way!_ ” 

The coachman’s kindly suggestion drove him to the side where the odd feeling of helplessness struck him even harder.

Was this, he wondered, what Hennessey had warned him about?

As the hack he hired made its way to the east side of London, he relived the brawl over and over, each time bloodier than the last. His body strained to contain the fight that panted within him, but he could only bite down a little harder, grip the pommel of his sword a little more tightly. His gloves creaked as they stretched over his sore knuckles. Not since he was a boy, shortly after he’d enlisted, had he behaved so recklessly. So _freely_.

He dropped onto his bed and unfurled his hands before him. They were steady, but he couldn’t say that he was too. He worried that what had been locked away couldn’t be again. Worried that he was more susceptible than Hennessey would have ever thought him, and all it took was a bit of hospitality and charisma to will him into turning that key.

When he awoke, he found spots of blood on the bedding, having scratched his hands in his sleep. Disoriented, he had no sense of the time or that he’d even drifted off. As he rubbed his eyes clear, he noticed a folded slip of paper on the floor by the door. He had hoped that news of his folly might not have reached Thomas, but, having heard outside of his father’s office about the altercation, he was calling on James to have words about it.

His brow creased, no doubt with disappointment, when James sat down across from him. He ran the fingers of his left hand, the less marred one, along the edge of the table as he awaited judgment, for Thomas to see him for who he truly was and spurn him as would have been his right to do. 

After an excruciatingly long sip of coffee, Thomas asked in one breath if he required additional care, if there were to be repercussions, if his influence could help him in any way. His own perfectly manicured hand hovered over his but never landed.

“We know what I should say, don’t we? That I condemn your actions, that they are beneath the dignity of your rank, and so on and so forth. But what I will say instead is that I do not know if I would not have done what you did had I been in your place.”

James nodded but was highly skeptical.

“You can’t possibly think that I am unaware of what is said about me.”

James’s hackles started to rise.

“Miranda would be touched that you defended her honor with such… _zeal_ , but she would also tell you not to do so at your own expense.”

James’s hand joined the other on his lap and squeezed it, the still simmering anger threatening to boil over again.

“While I always look forward to our meetings, I dread having to continue this conversation by myself, but if you bite your tongue any harder, I may have no choice.”

Before James could speak, the bell over the door began to clatter wildly. A loud coterie of gentlemen poured into the coffee house. A few of them nodded in Thomas’s direction. He nodded back.

“If you wish you join them, I can be on my way,” James said a bit too eagerly.

“Wha— ? Oh, no, god, even I tire of colloquies on arcane parliamentary maneuvers — and the gossip, James. Good lord, the gossip! The seamiest, most overripe — those men would put any sewing circle of widows to shame, I swear. What would you say to reconvening elsewhere? And giving them the room to jabber their nonsense about me? Ah! I know just the place.” Thomas exclaimed with a smack to the table. “Miranda told me there’s a new addition of a sculpture at the Haslington House that, according to her, I must see.”

“If the lady says you must then you must.”

“Wise words.”

On their way out, James two purposeful steps behind, Thomas bid the men a jaunty farewell then tamped his hat down onto his wig.

A short ride later, they were standing before their destination, a grand townhouse, the front gates of which were shut.

“It’s closed.”

“It can’t be.” Thomas glanced at his watch. “It’s only half four. Why would it — “ He gave the gate a jerk. It clanged frightfully, turning the heads of a few passersby.

“Thomas, it’s clearly — “

“It shouldn’t be though.” Thomas shook the gate again with increased impatience and clamor. “Anyone in? The gates are locked!”

“Oh, Jesus,” James mumbled, wishing he could turtle into his uniform.

“Hm. Maybe if I — “ Thomas inserted his foot between the bars and, stepping onto the bottom rail, hoisted himself up.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s not that high.”

“Are you seriously thinking of trespassing? In broad daylight?”

“I’m just going to knock on the door.”

A whiskered face appeared in an open window, saving Thomas from committing any crimes. He jumped down, landed with a grunt, and waved.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Coyle!”

This mole of a man haltingly emerged through the doors and hobbled to the gates. A large ring of keys dangled from his cane.

“My lord, my lord, were we expecting you?”

“Not exactly, Mr. Coyle. I hate to impose upon you, but I was hoping to show my friend, Lieutenant McGraw here, Sir Haslington’s collection.”

“We’re normally closed on Mondays, I’m afraid.”

“Closed on Mondays,” James repeated pointedly.

“That’s very unfortunate for us then.”

“Oh, oh, oh, but the good Lord and Lady Hamilton and their friends are always welcome here. Please come in, come in.”

Victorious, Thomas grinned ear-to-ear at James.

They entered the hushed silence of the vaulted anteroom. Like they’d entered a holy place, Thomas lightened his step on the mosaic tile floor. James found himself training his throat to whisper. While Thomas made idle chatter with the steward about this statue, he leaned past the entrance to peer down the main hall that connected several rooms. He’d only partaken in such viewings with the masses, noisy and reeking, and acutely felt the guilt of benefiting from such exclusive access. How could Thomas, so at ease wherever he went, possibly understand what it meant for him to be there and beside him as his “friend.”

“The chandeliers are not lit as you can see. I pray that won’t affect your experience too greatly.”

“A different light just means a different way of looking. A new experience.”

“Then I leave you and the lieutenant free rein of the place.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coyle. You are most kind.”

With Thomas’s hat cradled by his arm, he shuffled down a dark corridor, keys jangling, cane thumping.

James turned to Thomas, who excitedly rubbed his hands together. A charmed smile spread across his face as he looked up and around in wonder as if it was his first time there. James felt his own wonder at his swell in his chest.

Thomas gestured to the first room. “Shall we?”

One foot inside, and James stepped almost immediately back out. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to the installation of the works except for presumably Haslington’s own inscrutable whims. Vanitas still lifes were paired haphazardly with illuminated manuscripts. Sketches of pastoral scenes were hung too high to see well. James nearly kicked a hieroglyphic tablet that had been placed unceremoniously on the floor. He gulped down the urge to set it down in a less vulnerable location — to reorganize the whole damn place. What sort of man was this Haslington fellow anyway? _Well, a rich one, of course_. A rich, eccentric one. James figured if he was at all mad, his wealth surely kept him out of the bowels of Bethlem.

The unconventional arrangement seemed to suit Thomas though, who flitted from piece to piece like a bee from flower to flower. Intermittently he called James over to express admiration or cite a fact about whichever one momentarily captured his attention. James listened attentively and with genuine interest but found Thomas’s delight to be a subject more worthy of study.

“The statue Miranda spoke of, I believe, is in the next room. She told me it’s a reproduction of a faun that resides in the Palazzo Barberini. She made special note of it, because the original was thought to have been part of Hadrian’s mausole _oh_.”

Situated in the center of the room, in a cone of light that emanated from a small oculus, the life-sized, lifelike figure stopped them both in their tracks. After a silent second, they cleared their throats simultaneously. They approached it side-by-side and studied it, humming in tandem, then slowly circled it as true connoisseurs might have done.

“I thought fauns were merry-making woodland beings. Not figures of utter dissolution like this one.” James furrowed his brow in resemblance to the statue’s. He felt the prickling temptation to feel the lines etched into its forehead.

“Must have engaged in a bit too much merry-making the night before.” Bent at the waist, Thomas leaned in perilously close. “Would you look at that? The sculptor even detailed its — ”

“I can’t see what you’re pointing at. Are you pointing at its — “

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” He laughed to himself. “Oh, Miranda.”

“Thomas, take care not to tip over.”

James reached out to grasp a shoulder but quickly retracted his hand. Thomas capably righted himself on his own.

He turned on his heel and asked without context, “Are you a fan of the Dutch, James?”

“The people? As a whole?”

“Their artists. There’s a painting in the next room — unless ol’ Haslington’s moved it again — that is a favorite of mine here.”

Thomas eagerly proceeded ahead of him. In passing, he traced some of the faun’s curlicues of hair with a probing finger. James shot him a disapproving look despite knowing this was the exact reaction Thomas meant to extract from him.

He walked over to a bench placed before a painting, as if it had been especially for him, and sat down. Absurdly long and broad, and effortlessly poised, dressed in a fine suit as usual, Thomas himself became something like a work of art, the bench his modest pedestal until he insisted that James sit too. He hesitated but knew Thomas would protest if he refused. It was too small to accommodate them both with much room to spare so he awkwardly hung a leg off the end. With Thomas’s tendency to lean in for emphasis, the scant space between them was not going to last. James inhaled deeply and bid himself to concentrate on the painting instead of Thomas’s already encroaching knee.

From what he knew of portraiture, this painting of a young apple-cheeked family he recognized was done in that particularly Dutch style. Informal in attitude and modest in tone, the predominance of black over all other colors. Compared to the other works in the room — creamily-colored, amply-bottomed nudes and bowls of glistening fruit, sumptuous to the point of nausea-inducing — it was by miles and years the most staid. For its sheer difference alone, James should have guessed that this was the one Thomas was most attached to.

After a suitable amount of time for appreciation had passed, he posed the question that James was anticipating: “What do you think?”

“It’s rather stark, isn’t it? Suggestive of a rainy, wintry day.”

“I’m so pleased that you’re as taken by it as I am,” Thomas said with a playful lilt. “When I first saw it, I was reminded of another Dutch artist’s painting. A portrait of Charles I with his wife and son. What struck me, besides the comically large distance between the king and his family, was that Queen Mary was on the left, where the husband is traditionally placed in formal portraits — like the woman in this painting. Perhaps the Dutch are slightly less concerned about reinforcing hierarchy through their art than we are.”

He turned to James with his eyebrows raised in an unasked question. James inspected the painting again to try to puzzle out to where was he being led. He had seen poor copies of that painting of Charles I in marketplaces, had noticed how discrete each figure was as if they were painted at separate times while in this one, they were positioned closely together. Like a true family. He thought he could see now a fondness in the husband’s eyes as he seemed to share a joke only his wife could understand, the amusement in her knowing smirk, the warmth of the child’s cheeks. He could see now maybe what Thomas saw in it.

“In your portrait, Miranda is on the left.”

Thomas smiled, most pleased.

“Can’t abide by rules for even the most inconsequential things?” James scoffed with a short laugh.

“Rules, rules, James. So many to adhere to in our self-oppression. Spoken and unspoken, written in stone or guided by fashion. Admittedly, a lot of the time it’s not even intentional on my part.” Thomas chuckled. “However much one scrupulously abides by them, don’t you find that in the eyes of others one is always lacking?”

“Are you suggesting that one should simply cease following them?”

“No. But maybe to stop relying on them as a measure of his worth. After all, if you try to use conformity as a shield against the judgments of others, happiness will not be on the side of it that you are.”

James shook his head. Words from a man who had the luxury of stumbling without ever falling.

“When one is so deeply entrenched in doctrinal thinking that he becomes paralyzed upon the discovery of its dishonesty, sometimes breaking the rules is what’s necessary to start again and hopefully right.”

“Careful. Anyone of the hearing sort could interpret this talk as sedition and throw your lot in with the pirates.”

“Can I trust you not to turn me into the authorities?” Thomas brought his wrists together in imaginary manacles. “We are friends, are we not?”

Teasing, James shrugged indifferently.

“Why, you —” Thomas yipped in feigned injury then continued this line of thought in earnest. “I have acknowledged their wrongs. That rules oughtn’t be broken indiscriminately. But only one side gets to be deemed wholly, self-evidently right, because they’ve written the rules that make that determination. Their wrongs end when ours do. It really is quite simple on its face.”

“And peace and prosperity spread across the seas and throughout the land.”

“Mock all you like. There are members of Parliament who insist that what happened in Port Royal was an act of God and hope that God will fell Nassau too. If senseless calamity can be regarded as an attractive solution to the pirate issue, we shouldn’t expect the pirates to want the best outcomes for us either.”

“These men would hope for an act of God against the Empire?”

“An overlooked fallacy but beside the point. Some lesser minds say that it was divine punishment against the wicked, and Port Royal was a veritable Sodom on the sea. What they don’t appreciate is that if people are wicked it is because God made them so.”

James had no reassurances or arguments to offer in this case, since people wanting God to wipe out the wicked was a fact. People taking God’s judgment as their own to cast upon those they’ve deemed wicked was a fact. They were witnesses at the gallows to this.

“We are quick to punish but not to forgive. Christ forgives, because we are fallible — impulsive, covetous. So impossibly human. We shouldn’t consider their motives, their desires as so alien to ours.”

“I can’t imagine you — “ James curtly waved his hat around, gesturing at the opulent room. “ — can see yourself in these pirates. And they most definitely would not offer you the same courtesy of thought.”

“I think they’d agree that that lack of courtesy is something I can afford to go without.”

“In the end, they chose to betray the Crown. A nation that doesn’t punish its traitors is projecting weakness. Not just to pirates but to other empires.”

“Wouldn’t you agree though that the ability to choose the direction of one’s life is a scarce one?”

“I didn’t allow my circumstances to drive me to lawlessness.”

“But you are unlike most men. Do you not know this? You cannot expect others to possess the same extraordinary strength of character that you do, and then damn them for being unable to overcome the same obstacles you did. Understanding for those who err out of misfortune could be a gateway for those in power to become better men to all, can it not? A show of kindness, an expression of love — “

“‘Love’? We are still talking about pirates, aren’t we? Criminals? Thieves and murderers? If you want to show kindness or _whatever_ — I have to confess I’m struggling with this — what would that look like? Practically speaking.”

Caught flatfooted, Thomas’s mouth snapped shut. He had obviously strayed further than normal in his own ruminations. He smiled meekly, was even blushing, and flicked a hand at the painting. “That?”

“What, _domesticity_?”

“A…kinder, more…equitable world?”

“Come on, Thomas. I said ‘practically.’”

“A world…in which...one can seek self-fulfillment without fear or shame?” Thomas continued, finding his rhythm again.

James scoffed more loudly this time, but Thomas paid this no mind.

“We want to know with certainty who’s good and who’s evil, what’s right and what’s wrong when we judge others to often fatal ends. Moral clarity. But when those judgments contradict your instincts, your knowledge and experience, even the core of your very nature, what do you do?”

It stopped surprising James to be presented with questions like this, but Thomas’s tone indicated that this wasn’t a mere game of hypotheticals. That he thought James could supply the answer did surprise him. 

“If I’m certain about anything, it’s that answering your question is far above my station.”

“Sometimes there’s clarity in a blow to another man’s face, isn’t there? Or in a mother holding a child’s hand? Oh!” Thomas suddenly reached into his coat and pulled out a small notebook and a pencil worn down to a few inches. “Before I forget. I must send Mr. Coyle a token of my appreciation. Miranda tells me the poor chap is also having his foot removed next month. Maybe…chocolate?”

James cocked an eyebrow. “I counsel you on matters related to the Navy, not polite society.”

“Oh, don’t be a pain, James.”

“ _Yes_ , chocolate makes for a fine gift. No doubt Mr. Coyle would be bowled over by it.”

Thomas nodded. “Coyle…chocolate…foot,” he murmured as he scribbled.

James peered at the scrawl that covered the pages. “It’s a miracle you can read what you’ve written.”

“My clerk is a master of decipherment.”

“You must leave all messages of felicitations and condolences to Miranda then.”

“I add my name at the bottom when I can. There is a reason for my poor penmanship though.” Thomas leaned in conspiratorially. “This place has something like the air of confession, don’t you agree? I suddenly feel compelled to divulge a secret.”

James laughed nervously. “As long as it doesn’t compromise our working relationship, I guess you have my attention.”

“I hadn’t before?”

“When in the regular company of nobility, one learns fast the art of masking disinterest. If I am to divulge secrets too.”

“Why, that’s hardly a secret. It’s the very tissue that binds us together. After you hear what I have to tell you, you will owe me a real secret.” Thomas tucked the notebook beneath his arm then raised his hands with his palms facing James. “Let us consider this then an exercise in... _strengthening_ our working relationship. Because if we are to successfully deal with this pirate matter, there must be no barriers to the exchange of ideas. Honest, unvarnished discourse. We should look beyond history and custom in order to forge new paths of thinking and begin by freeing ourselves from beneath the weight of our deepest, most guarded secrets so that we may ascend toward higher truths. Now gird yourself, lieutenant. I mean it. While your sea legs may be steady and sturdy enough to withstand gales and storms and all manner of nature’s aggressions, this may very well knock you off your feet.”

“If you wanted me on tenterhooks, you’ve succeeded.”

“Using your unmatched powers of observation, can you tell the difference between my hands?”

James tilted his head. “Your left hand is… Don’t think that I’m insulting you, but it appears slighter.“

“I knew you would see it.” Thomas swiveled in his seat to scan the unoccupied room before whispering, “I was born…left-handed.”

James narrowed an eye. Thomas narrowed his in imitation.

“That is frankly not the revelation I girded myself so strenuously for.” Ungirded, James let out a noisy breath.

“But I have just confessed to you that I am a consort of the devil! James, James, James, what a world you must know to be this unmoved. If only my father had reacted with a similar lack of concern. The moment he caught sight of that dastardly piece of chalk in my left hand, how he swooped in to take action. Rushed me into the library where he ordered me to place my hand on a table. I watched him snatch a book off a shelf — god, I do wish I could remember which one — and he — “

Thomas brought the notebook spine-down onto the knuckles of his left hand. James didn’t have to see it as some child’s dimpled paw and the notebook as some tome to become dizzily fraught with anger.

“That’s barbaric.”

“Barbarism is an upper class tradition as you know. I was friends with another boy who was corrected in the same manner. Wally. Poor Wally. He had to have his arm tied to his chair during lessons until he was seven. And now he’s an Under Secretary in the Southern Department with eleven children.” Thomas flipped through the pages to his last notation, a string of c’s and o’s with indeterminate letters in between. “Coyle. Chocolate. Foot.”

“Do you ever…revert?” James asked, feeling emboldened by Thomas’s openness.

“Sometimes,” Thomas answered plainly then smiled. “You’re wondering how my penmanship compares between hands, aren’t you? Fortunately for you, I get a special joy out of satisfying your curiosity.”

He twirled his finger, directing James to turn around. He flattened the notebook open against his back. James bristled at the pressure from his hands.

“Jaaaames,” he intoned softly, almost purring, as he wrote out the name then repeated after switching hands. “Jaaaames.”

He hummed with satisfaction then tapped James on the shoulder. “If you could assess the results.”

He presented the controlled study to James, who guessed correctly that the more legible version of his name was the result of the left, but neither was remotely fit for an invitation to a grand party.

“Not exactly the devil’s handiwork, is it?” James grimaced. How he wished he could say instead that Thomas didn’t need correction. That no one would hurt him like that again. “It’s troubling, the nonsense people give dangerous amounts of credence to.”

“Mankind has always looked for demons, even in children. I was considered a rather strange boy and drove my father to constant raging. He eventually had to give in to my peculiar ways, and now all that is well in the past.” With that, he waved the specter of that memory away.

“I can’t say as a boy I wasn’t considered so strange myself. But not a difficult feat in Padstow where many still likely believe the world to be flat.”

“Imagine if we had known each other as children. We could have been strange boys together.”

“And how could we have possibly known each other as children?”

“Can you please let me have my imagination, James?” Thomas said peevishly. “Tragically we’ll have to settle for being strange men together.”

 _We could have been strange boys together._ Such a ridiculous thought, and so very terribly Thomas. 

James couldn’t help smiling at it though. What a different man he might have been today if they had.

They eased into a silence that wasn’t strange but calming and intimate. The sun was getting low and warmed him like skin. Bathed in its light, Thomas appeared years younger, and James could almost see him in his golden youth. It was certainly easier than it was to see his since it was so short-lived. In his mind now, clearer than his own once unlined face, was the image of the little lord astride a rocking horse, white-haired and wielding a riding crop. James’s smile gradually parted, unable to hold back a torrent of laughter.

“Ohhhh.” Thomas cupped his left ear. “God in heaven, can you hear that? The laughter of one James McGraw? A singular sound indeed. I hope I am in some way responsible for this change in mood.”

James’s laughter cooled to a throaty chuckle. “Sure.”

“Well, well, then I have fulfilled my mission for the day. How shall I reward myself for my success?” He tapped his chin as he contemplated the many ways. “Without question, you will join Miranda and I for supper tonight and then — chess!”

“No.”

“‘No’? _No?_ ”

“Because you are, in the history of the game, the sorest loser to have ever lost at it.”

“What? I am not. Draughts then.”

“Have you found all of the pieces after the last time?”

“I can get more.”

“For someone who thrives on legislative challenges and philosophical conundra, you’re a child when it comes to games. Miranda would confirm this without hesitation.”

“And you’re a cheat.”

James winced at this uncharacteristic lie.

“No, no. No.” The corners of Thomas’s mouth turned downwards in distaste at his own words. “No, you’re not a cheat. Worse than that — you’re an honest winner.”

“I would have reconsidered for another night, but now I most definitely won’t.”

“A pity. And since you’ve decided that games are off the table, I suppose I have to abandon this pretext and ask you directly to show me your hands.”

James shifted his hat around on his lap. “There’s no need to see them to understand what occurred.”

“Are you refusing me?”

James blinked. “Are you exerting your status over me?”

“No, I — ” Thomas’s expression softened in that way that softened everything around him. Including James’s resolve. “Please.”

With a small sigh, James presented his left hand first then took the more ravaged right out from beneath his hat.

“Oh. And you’re certain nothing is broken?”

“Nothing of mine anyway.” Thomas smiled at his rather smug reply. “You’re not…”

“We are men. Men fight.”

“Admiral Hennessey, he…” His words at the tavern, which still would not sit right with him, resounded once more. “He thinks what I did is something…I don’t know…he couldn’t quite put word to it either…that is unique to me.”

“He knows you far better than I, so I cannot argue with him. Should he and I have a word?”

“No. _No_. Absolutely not. The matter’s been settled, chalked up to everyone having too much to drink.”

“Thank god for drink.”

“I assure you that I don’t intend for a repeat performance. Or anything that may erode your confidence in me.”

“To be honest, James, I was somewhat shaken at first by the news. Taking into account your usually unflappable demeanor and the fact that rumors about Miranda and I abound. But after further consideration, I was no longer surprised.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your observational skills for example. They must come from a place of heightened…sensitivity, shall we say? Obviously intelligence. You not only see but sense more than others do, I can tell. Every wrong to your keen mind must be painful.”

“I think you grossly overestimate me.”

“Well, whatever I or the Admiral believe about you, you shouldn’t…” Thomas paused, just long enough to impose a degree of discomfort. “Instead of simply shunning those aspects of myself that I have been told to, I have found that it is more useful to know them. Because as hard as you try to will them away, they do not leave.” Thomas gave him a little wave of his left hand.

“But can you speak from this kind of experience?” James raised his right hand.

“I may engage in a different form of rabble-rousing, yes. Fisticuffs though? Not since school.”

“The vase-smashing ruffians of Eton.”

“Yes…” Thomas smirked tightly and looked down at his feet. James looked down at his own and silently swore at himself.

“I didn’t mea— “

“While I heard your name, I didn’t heard that of the other party.”

“Who?”

“The instigator of the fight.”

Tight-lipped, James was starting to find Thomas’s persistence on this subject annoying and turned his head away.

“I see. Some sort of code among sailors. You may as well tell me, because I will find out one way or another.” Thomas began to reel off the names of James’s fellow officers. “Carver. Herrod. Fornsett. Errrr…Buford. Pickram — “ James’s jaw tensed. Thomas caught this telltale sign and stiffened with indignation. “Pickram, was it? That foul, little, sour-faced toad.”

“Thomas — ”

“And his revolting carbuncle of an uncle. _Yergh_.”

“Thomas, you will not interfere.”

He huffed loudly. “If you should change your mind — ”

“ _I won’t_ ,” he replied rather snappishly. 

Thomas flinched, chastened. The air between them charged, they both fell quiet.

“You mustn’t, you know,” Thomas said gently.

“What?”

“Hide. While you’re right there, in front of me.” His voice quavered slightly with something James didn’t want to name lest he read too much into it.

“Look, I know you like to think we’re past such formalities, but I’m sorry I — “

“Don’t apologize either.”

“Good Christ, man! What do you want from me?”

James’s voice reverberated throughout the gallery. Breath held, he almost expected to hear pottery, shaken off their pedestals, come crashing to the floor. Thomas’s mouth had formed a small ‘o.’ A sweet little pucker. So as not to stare, James glanced around the room. It was still very much to themselves, and all the pottery still very much intact.

His hand began to withdraw to his pocket, but its retreat was cut short. His instincts roared to tear it away, but he just looked down at it instead. Thomas’s left hand was encircling his wrist firmly but not forcefully, the lines between them so easily crossed.

“You can leave if you want. Wherever you want to go, I can have someone take you there.”

Anywhere, anywhere. As long as Thomas was there.

He released James’s wrist but not his gaze. “I apologize. I know I tend to overstep.”

“Don’t — please don’t think further on it. You were kind enough to bring me to this place. I shouldn’t be ungrateful.”

“It’s neither here nor there for me if you don’t wish to stay.”

“No. I like it here. I do. This painting has even grown on me.”

“Liar,” Thomas said with a small smile.

James spread his hand on his thigh. In the low light, the torn, scabrous skin of his knuckles cast jagged shadows. Watery purples and blues had started to spread.

“On every injury I sustained as a child, my mother made sure to bestow a kiss. Because the pain always subsided shortly afterwards, I thought this was some act of witchcraft and worried myself sick for her. I learned that it wasn’t of course. That it was the comfort of a loving touch. So if you were little Thomas, she would have taken your hands and — ”

“And all would have been better,” James said dryly.

“We shouldn’t have to inure ourselves to pain, because we are no longer children.”

James brushed the back of his hand with his fingertips. A vision washed away all of his other thoughts: Thomas running his own fingertips over the hilly range of his knuckles before placing his lips to each. He was sure now that the child in the painting was a boy.

“When I was twelve, as a demonstration of my undue affection, I decided to gift her a portrait. Of her, by me. It took all year to finish, and, in the end, it was fit for a fire. She kept it to everyone’s horror though. _Love_ ,” he added with a chuckle.

“I dabbled too when I was younger,” James said offhandedly.

“Really?” Thomas leaned back to stare at James, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. “James, you’re an artist?”

“An artist? No. I’ve painted.” James almost tripped over his words, not having spoken or thought about this part of his life in years. Confessions, it seemed, was indeed the theme of the day.

“You’re an artist — oh, of course you are.” James evidently wore his lack of comprehension on his face. “You’re just so clever at — everything! Of course, you can paint too. How wonderful. I must see your paintings. Why — now even.”

“What I did have, I bartered away long ago.”

Visibly crestfallen, Thomas uttered a toneless, “Oh.”

“I promise you they were nothing to write home about. Seascapes of no distinction mostly. They might have been good enough for the walls of boarding houses but not these walls here.”

“I wish I could have been a judge of that.” He looked down, momentarily dejected, before perking up, the light catching his eye. “When this is all over — “

 _This?_ A chill swept through James’s core. He started to twiddle his fingers, a habit he must have picked up from Thomas. How could he say that when “this” was over, the world might lose color and sound, food its flavor, and ale its spirit. How could he say that he had become…

“You may have the time again? To paint. Of course we have more than enough room for an atelier of sorts that you could use. It should face the back garden for when the light is good. And I know exactly where.”

His voice faded into silent contemplation. He pressed the flat of his thumbnail to his lip, a mannerism James already knew well. He was planning. Working out logistics, sourcing vendors, building out the space, and furnishing it. Perhaps he also saw himself in this room, leaning in a little too closely to watch him paint. James did. James saw it all. The garden. The light. Thomas.

“That would be…” He swallowed hard. He had no insightful counterpoint, no taunting quip. “…excessively generous.”

“Would you be so inclined as to show me your paintings should you make more? No obligations.”

James’s chest loosened, he was unfurling. Thomas continued to blithely presume that there would be a place for him in his world. No matter who he was, no matter what he had done.

“I suppose — yes. _Yes_. I would.”

It seemed like he could see clearly now for miles and miles, but when Thomas looked at him, it was as if he was all and only that he saw. Thomas’s gaze drifted off into the distance as if their future awaited them in the next room. When it returned to James, it was focused and beckoning him to join him there.

“I’d love that, James.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading what is basically a shaggy fic loaf that’s comprised of bits from dead wips, discarded headcanons & cut text from my other fic.


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